


Feathers and greed

by siberianchan



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Basically, Feather Plucking, M/M, Wing Kink, and, and me having silly ideas, greed - Freeform, i went there, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 00:56:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siberianchan/pseuds/siberianchan
Summary: Aziraphale needs a favour. Crowley needs feathers. And basically I just wanted to write a "OH We need to pu on a show before we bone" thing and get rid of the idea JamieAvenBell put in my head.Yes. Blame. Her.





	Feathers and greed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JamieAvenBell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamieAvenBell/gifts), [SonyB89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonyB89/gifts).

> Well. Wing kink.

Winter in London was a dreadful business, clammy and cold with snow as rare as a decent, good, honest politician.

Both Aziraphale and Crowley hated it, Crowley more so, possibly. He was a snake after all. The Cold never agreed with him and the damp, misty air of a London Winter did the rest.

Winter was the season he was more social with Aziraphale too, what with the bookshop always being warm and dry and a perfect hideout for a snake. It was all an unspoken part of The Arrangement. Winter came, Crowley would hang out in the book shop, sometimes in his human form, sometimes curled up on a bookshelf, scaring the everloving crap out of the occasional customer. Another unspoken part was the occasional mug of steaming hot cocoa or - in the mornings - coffee Aziraphale would either silently press into his hands or put down next to him on the shelf.

It was a reason to actually like winter again, Crowley found, not that he would ever say that to Aziraphale’s face.

They were angel and demon, respectively after all. There were certain formalities to be observed. (Like the idea that Crowley left Aziraphale alone on Sundays.)

He was at the bookshop still after closing hours on December eleventh and sipping at the cocoa Aziraphale had handed him about half an hour ago. Aziraphale had a knack for cocoa, with lots of cream and honey and cinnamon mixed with the cocoa powder until it was a semi liquid mass he could keep in his fridge for a day or two and then spoon into a mug to fill it with boiling milk. He also liked to add sprinkles of chocolate, but they were a bonus, nothing more. Crowley enjoyed his cocoa one way or another.

“Sssssssso,” he drawled, the tip of this tail twitching.

Aziraphale flinched. “Y-Yes, dear?"

“You didn’t kick me out yet,” he decided to go on, since this was better than to dwell on that particular line of thought.

“Well, no, I don’t want to be rude,” Aziraphale said. “And as long as you are here I can keep an eye on you, preventing you from doing mischief.”

“Ah, yesssssss, thhhhwarting me withhhhhhhhh the power of cocoa.” Crowley curled a little tighter around his mug and then began to sip with quick flicks of a thin, forked tongue. 

“Indeed and you haven’t finished yours yet, it would be terrible to send you on your way and waste a good mug of cocoa.”

“You could finishhhhh it yourssssselffffff,” Crowley suggested.

“Don’t be silly, dear boy,” was all Aziraphale had to say.

In short, Crowley surmised, Aziraphale wanted something from him. He took a few more sips and watched the wring his hands and putter about the store. He didn’t seem ready to spill the metaphorical beans just yet, but he would be soon enough. All Crowley had to do was sip his cocoa and wait and watch the angel..

So he sipped his cocoa and waited and watched the angel.

After fifteen minutes of sipping cocoa and waiting and watching the angel, latter finally sighed, “I have a favour to ask of you.”

“Oh.” Crowley lifted his head out of the mug. “Yessssss?”

“Or perhaps I am invoking the favour you owe me for me covering for you in Manchester last May,” Aziraphale continued.

If he was  _ invoking _ things that usually meant he really, really  _ really  _ didn’t want to go where he was sent to and that meant that Crowley had a whole collection of smaller favours lined up that  _ he _ could invoke in turn before Aziraphale could ask him again to cover for him.

“Sssssso?”

“I… I am supposed to be in Inverness next Sunday.”

“Invernessssss,” Crowley hissed. “Lovely placccce, ssssmall sssstreetsssss, lotssss of Haggissss, cold and icccccy, up in thhhe mountainssss,”

“Yes!”, Aziraphale cried, “there is that funny association, I don’t know… I think they are trying to emulate the Freemasons, I haven’t looked them up yet. I am supposed to get an invitation to their Christmas party and then be there for said Christmas party next Sunday.”

“Sssssoundssss like an easssy enoughhhh sssssstint to me,” Crowley remarked.

“It is, I suppose.” Aziraphale headed back to his comfy, old sofa and flopped into it with so much drama that Crowley felt a twinge of pride. “And- spreading divine love and awe and joy around Christmas, well, yes, I… but-”

“You don’t want to,” Crowley drawled, slowly unwrapping his coils. “You know, you can sssssay it withhhhh me.”

“Well, I am not objecting on a principle,” Aziraphale said, “I wouldn’t mind to go, really, it is just that…”

“Haggisssss?”

Aziraphale shuddered. “I heard they are serving this. And only this.”

“Quite clichhhé.”

“Indeed. There are so many other lovely Scottish dishes, but- well. Also, next Sunday there is a performance of Dickens’  _ Christmas Carol _ over at the Southbank and I was of a mind to see a performance since the Fifties but I never got around and this time I really don’t-”

Not that Crowley would ever say that out loud, but Aziraphale was cute when he was desperately trying to justify his unwillingness to do something. His cheeks flushed and he scrunched his nose like a nervous little rabbit. It was the main reason Crowley liked annoying him a little so much. That and- well, he  _ was _ a demon after all. Not a particularly enthusiastic one, but a demon nonetheless.

On the other hand, an adorable Aziraphale was an Aziraphale Crowley found impossible to refuse. (He suspected the angel was catching on on that) So he nodded and slid, tail first, off the shelf, while transforming back into something more along the lines of approximately humanoid. “Alright, alright, I’ll do it. What is it? Get an invitation and then go and be a veritable Father Christmas?” he asked while sauntering over to him.

Aziraphale’s face flickered and then lit up and oh, what a sight that always was. “Oh, thank you, my dear, thank you, that is really k-”

“Shut up!” Crowley managed to intervene, just in time before Aziraphale could utter a praise. 

Aziraphale caught on and smiled. “Yes, of course. Another cup of cocoa?”

“Sure, I think I can do with some more thwarting.” 

“Angel!”, he called on Friday, sauntering through the shop door as much as he could with the bloody cold. "Oi, angel, where're you at?"

"Back here," Aziraphale's voice called from the back of the shop. "Just- got some new books in today and have to file them and-"

Crowley followed the voice to the little office nook where Aziraphale had all the boxes with his inventory file cards tucked away in shelves surrounding his chair.

Crowley found him bent over his desk, a pen in his hand, writing the data for a first edition of Eliza Acton's "Modern Cookery" on a file card before tucking it away before carefully taking the book and placing it on a carefully stacked pile.

Only then he looked up. “What brings you here? Can I offer you something, a glass of wine, some tea-”

“Got the bloody invitation,” Crowley interrupted him.

“Oh, that’ wonderful”, Aziraphale chirped. “You’ll be out of town by tomorrow, then? Thank you for letting me know. How did you get that invitation? It was giving me such a headache the last few days.”

“Well, I… I claimed that one of their members - a former one, to be safe - had invited me before,” Crowley admitted.

It wasn’t exactly the way Aziraphale would have done it, but then again, Aziraphale’s method, whatever it may have been had been hardly successful.

Aziraphale knew that as well as Crowley and Crowley knew that Aziraphale knew that. So Aziraphale nodded. “Of course. Again, thank you for telling me.”

“First-time invitees have to present a large, white feather,” Crowley blurted out.

Aziraphale blinked at him for a moment. “Oh. Alright.”

“Yes.” Crowley grabbed the invitation card he had received in the mail this morning - along with far too many flyers and other junk, why did he continue to get these, he constantly called these companies to stop sending him stuff, always made sure to give his address so they knew wich post boy to avoid and still.

He read out aloud, “Most esteemed Mr. Crowley, with pleasure we have received your resumé and your recommendation by Mr. Bates.”

“What happened to said Mr. Bates anyways?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged. “Died.”

“Crowley!”

“Some twenty years ago!” Crowley lifted his hands in self-defense. “Look, I checked, they’re worse with their paperwork than our offices and getting a recommendation from a dead man nobody seems to miss or check on was the easiest and quickest way to get in there.” He sighed and took up the card again. “With even greater pleasure we announce that hereby you are invited to our annual Christmas Party at Culloden House, Inverness on Sunday, December 17th. There you be introduced to our society and tested for your suitability. Formal attire is expected.”

“I take you are in possession of a proper dinner suit?” Aziraphale asked. 

“ _ Yes! _ “ Crowley hissed, “Yes, I do have a proper suit, I have several of those, in fact, I just don’t like wearing anything too stiff, guess why the Nineteenth century sucked so much.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Of course. So, what is it?” 

Again Crowley lifted the card.

“As a initiate you are expected to wear three pristinely white, large feathers on your head to present to the three principal heads of our society.”

“Oh, goodness, that must be a joke on the name  _ Cerberus Society _ ,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Probably. I need three large, white feathers. Now.”

“What-”

“I have to be there tomorrow, Angel, I…” Crowley groaned. “Look, we both know that you have a perfectly fine set of perfectly white, spotless wings. Could do with some more grooming, but they’re clean and your feathers are big and-”

“Indispensable,” Aziraphale declared after a moments pause and in a rather impassive voice.

Crowley eyed him, but the angel’s face gave no clue. “Please?”

“No.” Aziraphale shook his head. “Imagine what my superiors would say If I just  _ gave _ three of my feathers to a demon!”

“Not even when I give you three of mine?”

“ _ No! _ ” Aziraphale cried out with something that sounded  _ almost  _ like dismay.

Crowley had to be in Inverness by noon, he had no time and he only needed three feathers because he was taking over from Aziraphale and they were  _ still _ playing this game. The angel was lucky that he was cute, really.

Crowley looked around.

There were the new books. There was his box with all his note cards, such a lovely little system he had here, very nice, very tidy.

He let his fingers slide idly over the cards. The cardboard edges tickled his fingertips, but the planes were pleasantly smooth.

He could feel the lines Aziraphale’s neat handwriting had left on them in ink.

Aziraphale lifted his head and for a moment their eyes locked in with another. 

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Aziraphale said.

“Thwart me,” Crowley leered.

Aziraphale could easily stop him by taking his hand and pulling it away. They both knew very well that he didn’t even need to do that much. A word, a clear, honest “No” would have been enough to stay Crowley’s hand.

Crowley grabbed three or four cards - all cookery-related - and quickly went to another box, labelled “15th century theatre”. Quickly he shoved the cards in. “So, angel.”

“Oh, you will regret that,” Aziraphle declared trying - and failing - to sound infuriated.

Crowley laughed to himself as he saw Aziraphale’s wings stretch, spreading almost blinding light, but tucked closely to his body, in order to save his books from too much damage.

Crowley could have unfurled his own wings, but that would have probably put some books in the danger zone, so he just remained where he was when Aziraphale came and grabbed his wrist to pull him away from the boxes.

And of course, Crowley flailed and his free hand knocked the box over.

Aziraphale’s arm snatched around his waist and they fell down to the floor.

Crowley’s hand found one of Aziraphale’s wings, the upper bone and slid up to the joint.

Aziraphale’s breath hitched at that movement and Crowley loosened his grip.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s alright, it’s… it was a surprise, a little, I…” His wing twitched under Crowley’s hand and he pressed down on it a little. Then he collected himself a little. “If you don’t let go of me, foul fiend, I shall fight back.”

“Oh, fight back as much as you want to,” Crowley drawled, because he was mean like that, because he loved his angel in that particular state of mock-upset.

“Oh, I will,” Aziraphale whispered and flexed the wing into Crowley’s fingers.

“That’s good because I won’t let go of you until you cry defeat,” Crowley whispered into his ear and he felt Aziraphale nod in the crook of his neck and oh, it felt so  _ good _ to have his breath rush over his skin.

When he reached out to pluck the first feather Aziraphale groaned against his skin and oh,  _ everything in everythere _ , that sound should be forbidden.

He grabbed one of the large, ran his fingers up to where it met the coverlets and followed one fo these - Aziraphale shuddered.

Crowley paused. “Alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine, dear,” Aziraphale mumbled. 

When Crowley pulled and plucked the first feather he let out a little scream, almost a gasp. 

Again Crowley paused, but Aziraphale didn’t struggle against his grip and per agreement, that meant that everything was fine.

So he gripped again and took another coverlet.

Aziraphale flinched and shuddered against him and Crowley buried his hand in the soft feathers, gripped one last time and plucked the third feather.

“Great.” Crowley carefully tucked the feathers away and now released Aziraphale’s wing from his grip. “Guess I should say Thank you, Angel.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were rather glazed over. He was breathing, unnecessarily and heavily.

“What do you say, I buy you dinner as thanks?” Crowley continued. “I mean, I needed the feathers only because I took over your job, so your assistance should be a given, but you know me, I’m always generous.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured. “And you would still get me all riled up first and then leave me hanging until I beg?”

“Well, I  _ am  _ a demon. My job is to tempt people.” Crowley smiled and leaned over Aziraphale, just a little closer, just a little more-

“Give them a taste, make them want more and more and more until they reach out for it to take it, since it isn’t given to them.” He ran a hand over Aziraphale’s hair, down his neck and his back and paused, within a breath of the base of the angel’s wing.

“When I don’t have to offer it anymore,” he whispered, first close to Aziraphale’s ear and then to his lips, “and they still want it an want it even more - then I’ve succeeded. Just a little suggestion-”

The angel grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer, close enough to brush his lips against Crowley’s.

The tingle of the contact jolted up Crowley’s arm and down his spine.

He sighed as the touch deepened, little by little and he melted against the other’s body.

Aziraphale took him in his arms and pulled him closer. “You  _ are _ terrible, you know that? Terrible, terrible serpent,” he whispered in the sweetest voice possible. Each word was an endearment and Crowley drank it all up greedily.

“I know,” he purred against Aziraphale’s throat. The angel had a pulse. So did, in fact, Crowley. Neither of them strictly needed a pulse, but they both had it. It helped appearing more human to actual human beings who were, usually unconsciously so very perceptive of these little differences. It also felt rather pleasant to have blood running through his veins, warming his skin, making every single cell in this body of his throb and sing for a gentle touch.

And Aziraphale yearned to do the touching as much as he wanted to be touched.

Just like Crowley did.

They always mirrored each other like that and it made Crowley want him even more.

“I know,” he went on to whisper against his skin, so soft, so warm, so delicious to run his tongue over. “That’s my job.”

He felt Aziraphale shiver against him. “It is. You are awfully good at it.”

“Not as good as you,” Crowley admitted, because it was true. “So sweet, so delightful -

Crowley could come - whatever way - just from that. “Where have you learned that?”

“Humans,” Aziraphale replied with a laugh as brittle and fleeting as a human gasping for breath. He smiled up at him and took hishand. "Now would you please finish what you've started, dear?"

Crowley laughed.

And happily obliged.

"I hope you picked something good," Aziraphale said later as he straightened out his clothes again. He was still smiling, positively glowing with full, content satisfaction.

"You're still asking me to invite you to dinner," Crowley said as he watched the gentle curve of his neck disappear under a shirt collar again. A shame, really. Aziraphale had a rather nice neck.

"You offered it, if I remember it right," the angel hummed. "As a thank you for turning me into a sad approximation of a cooking chicken."

"I think you got plenty reimbursed for that."

"Not at all. That was just you cleaning up after yourself. Making sure I am not suffering too much from what you inflicted on me. The dinner was the thanks you promised for me giving you the feathers."

Crowley laughed. "Greedy, angel, that's what you are, greedy, greedy, greedy."

"As if you would ever miss a chance for a good meal in my company,” Aziraphale laughed and it rippled through Crowley’s body.

it was so annoying how easily the angel could see through him, Crowley found, but it wasn’t annoying enough for him to be all pouty and refuse the angel his dinner and deny himself the pleasure of watching Aziraphale enjoy the taste and texture of a well-prepared, carefully crafted meal.

Thus he allowed the angel to take his arm - which he hadn’t offered to him - and led him out and to the Bentley.

“I think I’ll take you to the  _ White Tree _ , they have a wonderful offer of roast goose for the Christmas season,” Crowley said.

“Oh, that sounds marvellous we haven’t been there for about two years.”

“Exactly, angel.”

The  _ White Tree _ was located at the border of Piccadilly and had started as the brainchild of a farmer’s daughter from Cornwall who had not been keen on inheriting the family business but also had not fancied the prospect of the farm being lost to her family. So when she had started out as a chef she had put everything she had into opening up her own restaurant which sourced its dairy, eggs and meat almost exclusively from that lovely little farm down in Wales that in these days was run by her younger siblings, while fruits and vegetables were brought in from all over the island. Both Crowley and Aziraphale had liked the concept back in the day when Miss Patmore, now Mrs. Patmore-Davies had told them about it over a pint too many, but since a restaurant with ethical and locally sourced ingredients was about as pure and good and un-evil the world could get it had been mainly under Aziraphale’s wing. Crowley had nudged Patmore towards a few local breweries for beer and cider, though, just to un-purify the place just a little.

Over the years they had been irregular customers, irregular enough to not be remembered even by the most attentive owner of a small family business.

Aziraphale’s eyes lightened up when they drove to the small parking lot next to a large, currently vacant garden with long stone benches and tables. “Oh look, they expanded to a beer garden, how lovely.”

“Looks like it. We can come here in the summer, if you like,” Crowley offered as he led him through the door and to an empty table in a semi-secluded, small nook.

A waitress came and took their orders for cider and recommended the roast goose before leaving.

Aziraphale sighed. “Ah, this is nice - promise me you’ll eat something, dear, I always feel terrible when we are out and all you consume is a glass of wine and maybe an appetizer.”

“Oh I would hardly describe you as merely an appetizer, angel,” Crowley grinned and delighted in how Aziraphale’s cheeks reddened.

“Oh well, I… I take a look at the menu the-Crowley!”

Aziraphale’s voice had dropped to a low and rather disappointed whisper and Crowley flinched. For a moment he hissed at himself for how much he reeled from the angel’s disapproval.

“Crowley, I knew you could be petty and mean, but-” Aziraphale picked up a small table stand, cast from transparent resin and a piece of paper in it.

_ Special Christmas grab!!!! _

_ So many geese to roast, so many feathers to pluck… _

And then the drawing of a featherless goose, using her naked wings to cover the area between her legs.

_ If you are in need of a freshly stuffed pillows or a few nice quills to unleash your inner Shakespeare, visit us at our farm. Spend a fun weekend with your family. Or place an order at our staff _ .

“Well,” Crowley said.

“Did you know about this?” Aziraphale asked as their wine came, a Bordeaux from two years ago, nothing great, but wines weren’t the focus of the  _ White Tree  _ so that was alright.

Crowley had long since sworn to never lie to Aziraphale, not that he would have ever told him.

Crowley also was of the mind, that if one didn’t say anything at all one couldn’t lie.

So he remained quiet.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “The whole affair back at the book shop, well…”

“Yes, angel?”

“Well, this was utterly unnecessary, entirely pointless then, so why-”

“Well, it might not have been necessary,” Crowley drawled and lowered his spectacles, just enough for him to peek over them at Aziraphale. “But I would very much say it was not pointless, would you?”

Again Aziraphale’s cheeks reddened and oh, Crowley would never have enough of that sight.

“I take it I’m still invited in your book shop?”

“Well.” Aziraphale took a sip of his wine. “That entirely depends what you’re planning to bring back for me from Inverness.”

“Greedy,” Crowley chuckled. “Very greedy.” He supposed it better be good, then. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Christmas. In mid-August.  
Yay?


End file.
